(the lame progression of illness)

                              I've seen the tiresome journeymen stumble in and out of dim-lit barroom vestibules, with stale morning footsteps; whispering snarlingly on broken bar-stools, silently adulterating- blindly staggering down narrow hallway landings; firmly mounting tenement staircases; grey bloodshot eyes prying-peering out from second and third story window balconies. Furrowed clod plots and piled dirt patterns align an autumn courtyard below; among the layered brick and columned mortar; shadows die in the eminent depth of countless dreadful evenings aside a dry fiery mantel; wretched sounds that lull from distant outbound trains and railway cars of ole rustic tiding,
                              sullenly domesticated; enveloped in soaked cardboard binding; a soiled paper bag refugee remains homeless and wayward tonight; garbage disposal headlines stretch vaguely out across grim night-sky networks of white electronic brilliancy  .
             How brisk and blithely, the naive neighborhood schoolchildren frolic round cemented sidewalk corner-stalls, promenading down dusty streets of ornamented silhouettes.
                    It is the worn forlorn age of monumental suffrage laid out for a season's cycle, embedded oak firmaments, late November archives of mid-autumn growth;
                                     
                                                      ( the lame progression of illness)
                                 
                          Florid red and sea-foam green: and not with impunity; our dying memories flicker like dead boughs of bare cypress trees wrought  in the deep green depth of remote forest hillsides. In the innocence of ungodly hours we find ourselves at home, within a hearth's tranquil heat, in dens of unflattering recreation.
                    
                                     our children have not won the war, though
                                     let it be known, unto
                                     their deaths they shall fight
                           
                           what a frail woman has said and done to me; my adorned ghostly wife
                           her undergarment oaths of sacred anointment; let 'em shine tepid bright streams against the hollow ceiling. A family promise made wholly from a heart's faith; vacant windowsill candlelight refracts sordid shadows from the clear cluttered night. Late city streets they bleed midnight tendencies; remain ethereal and gloomily immortal in flesh-like eternities.
                             Our mid-afternoon garden of common residence; casually speaking in terminal tongues; how habitually mortal we are!; clasping a pale feminine sole of your bruised dainty foot ; lying naked on a bedspread; I flung a velvet pillow by your heirloom headboard; I fancy you tenderly; but how rottenly spoiled you are! Watching you hesitate upon crucial awakenings, prevaricating lucidly to ones self, disgustingly; and so beguiled! attempting to justify ones self to ones tattered self; beaten into self-afflicted submission; to surrender and to
                                   admit complete defeat is
                                   but a transparent awakening into
                                                             a selfless proclaimed progress of glory, holiness and
                                                                                     fearless
                                                                                          victory.